


Lips Like Petals, Unfurling From A Bud

by MissMoochy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki Disease, Illnesses, Lovesickness, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Crowley knows Aziraphale will never reciprocate his love. For so long, he's been content to merely be the angel's friend. But when Crowley develops the love sickness, Hanahaki Disease, he knows his love for Aziraphale will kill him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 261





	Lips Like Petals, Unfurling From A Bud

**Author's Note:**

> From the wikipedia page: "Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear."   
> I've always wanted to write a Hanahaki fic so please let me know if you liked it!

He found himself short of breath these days. Of course, being a demon, breath wasn’t necessary, but it was still something he enjoyed having. Like a good car or a new jacket, it was a luxury. And he’d become accustomed to having it.

One thing that it seemed he would never have, was the only other thing that could take his breath away. His oldest (and, if he was honest, his only) friend, Aziraphale. If he had to choose, he’d prefer to have his breath sucked from his lungs by a passionate kiss, perhaps Aziraphale using that ridiculous angelic strength to press Crowley up against a wall and snog him until his lips ached. But that was never gonna happen.

He was weakening. Did demon bodies have a shelf life? He was almost certain they didn’t. Of course, he could have attempted to ask another demon, but seeing as the last time he’d asked questions, he’d got booted down into Hell, he’d kept his mouth shut this time around. Although, maybe that was a wasted effort. What were they going to do if he asked questions now? Sentence him to a stint in Super-Hell?

Yes, his breath was short. He could only take light, shallow breaths. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, it was rather like having a tight band across his chest, not tight enough to dig into the skin, but tight enough that it rendered him unable to breath deeply. Oh, how he longed to open his mouth and take a clean, cold lungful of air.

His senses seemed to be working fine though. For instance, here he sat, beside Aziraphale at a new restaurant they’d wanted to try, and he could hear the clinking of the other customers’ glasses, see the bright lights and the even brighter eyes of his dinner companion. Let his serpentine tongue flicker out and scent the air, pulling in the delicious smell of Aziraphale’s latest aftershave. He trembled with need, but hid it behind his menu.

Okay, since the moment he’d walked through the door, and spotted the angel waiting patiently for him at a table in the corner, that dimpled, smiling face softly lit by the candlelight like a Rembrandt painting, he’d involuntarily swallowed, and become aware of a lump in his throat. But it was probably nothing.

He’d had a moment, eating a spoonful of Aziraphale’s Eton Mess at the angel’s behest (and if he was baldly honest with himself, he’d wanted to plant his lips on the spoon, still wet from Aziraphale’s mouth. Hell, he was sick) and as the sweet creaminess slid down his throat, it had made contact with the lump in his throat, the lump of dessert and the lump of mucus or whatever it was, settling in his windpipe and cutting off his air. Perhaps he’d been amongst humans for too long because the sudden lack of oxygen troubled him, he felt the surge of anxiety a human would feel.

He coughed and wheezed for so long that Aziraphale thumped him on the back and a waiter raced over to attempt the Heimlich. Crowley had managed to swallow the damn mouthful down past the lump and fended the waiter off with a dismissive wave of his fingers and a black look. It had almost ruined the evening.

But then they’d decided to throw back glasses of wine to calm their nerves, and the evening passed in a warm, happy haze, where they walked, stumbling and leaning heavily on each other, to Aziraphale’s bookshop, which was closest.

Here, walking under the stars, that seemed to wink in the sky for him as if they knew he’d made them, with the warm weight of Aziraphale leaning on him, he felt truly content. The lump in his throat remained, no glass of wine had been enough to dislodge it so there it sat, but he breathed around it and smiled down at his friend.

* * *

He awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a hacking cough. The headache was expected (he’d decided to forgo sobering up and had instead napped on Aziraphale’s sofa) but the cough was new. And -

Painful. He spluttered, bringing up globs of mucus that spattered on his chin. What was wrong with him? 

“Ugh…” he murmured, his voice thick. The lump was still there. Perhaps he was coming down with something? Which would be the first time in...ever, but what else could it be?

* * *

Apparently, colds only last a week or two. Influenza takes a little longer.  _ Not that any of that matters,  _ Crowley thought, flipping through a health magazine. He’d given it a week and the lump was still there. Not only that, but when he’d awoken, he was distinctly aware of a pressure in his chest. He’d pushed his blankets off his body, thinking they were restricting him somehow, but really, the pressure was more than a few blankets would be able to cause. Perhaps the corporation was on its way out, maybe they have a shelf life?

* * *

Crowley groggily lifted his hungover head off the pillow (there was something distinctly joyless about getting drunk on his own, it was much better when Aziraphale was with him) and lay there, feeling like he was lying in his own grave. He’d been drinking more than normal, anything to distract off the damn lump in his throat.

It wasn’t a pleasant way to start the day. He’d had some nice dreams, weird abstract, wine-induced fancies, of Aziraphale, his gossamer curls, his chiming laugh, his...other attributes. The dream had been so vivid, he’d actually been able to feel the heavy weight of Aziraphale lying on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. They hadn’t been talking; it wasn’t that kind of dream. But Aziraphale was on top of him, so heavy and solid and  _ real,  _ with his tongue down Crowley’s thought and yeah, it was great, but although he technically didn’t need to breathe, he still felt the instinct to do so, and he was trying to push Aziraphale off to tell him that  _ yes, he did want this but could Aziraphale maybe space out the snogging so Crowley could grab in a few breaths of air and - _ then he was awake. With a pressure in his chest and a lump in his throat.

Crowley wildly lurched over, coughing and spitting, not caring what came out of his mouth and landed on the floor beside his bed. It was very undignified and this position wasn’t helping his headache but the gravity was working. Wet gunk was coming up his throat and dripping down his chin onto the floorboards. He saw yellow mucus with red mixed in and oh, was he _ bleeding  _ now? But it was only when he’d crawled out of bed, and knelt down, poking the vile puddle with the temple tip of his sunglasses, that he realised it wasn’t blood. It was a clump of small red petals, glued together with spit.

_ Petals? _ He’d had  _ petals  _ in his throat?

He could have asked Aziraphale. He should have, but he didn’t and he felt in his heart that if Aziraphale were in his situation, he would have acted exactly the same, albeit for different reasons. Aziraphale wouldn’t want Crowley to know he was sick because he wouldn’t want him to worry. Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to know he was sick because he didn’t want Aziraphale to worry AND he didn’t want the angel to see him as weak.

Perhaps if their dynamic was different but then, Crowley had always been the rescuer, the one who had all the answers, or at least, he liked to think so. And Aziraphale had sighed Crowley’s name so prettily when he’d rescued him in the bastille. That little adventure had fuelled a few fantasties for the next century or so. He liked being strong. He liked being somebody Aziraphale could depend on. So instead, he placed the bundle of petals in a pint glass, and left them in his kitchen.

If he wanted to keep Aziraphale’s faith in him, he’d have to figure this out on his own.

* * *

He’d got nowhere with his research. He figured it was unlikely he was sleep-eating flowers, grazing in Green Park or something. So he was working with the idea that it was a curse of some sort. He had more enemies than friends. He wouldn’t have even known where to begin with his search.

They weren’t lone petals now, clogging up his throat. He had spent the morning perched on the rim of his bathtub, using a toothbrush to dig out full flowers out of his throat. His ministrations had barely made a dent, the lump was still there, like it was waiting for him. The pint glass was half full now.

He forced himself to get dressed, picking his jeans off the floor where he’d thrown them. Even the simple act of bending at the waist had him wheezing, he had to take a few seconds to sit down before he could even attempt pulling his jeans on. 

Damn, why did he have to wear such tight clothing? His grip seemed looser, his fingers weakly pulling on the denim, the kind of weakness in the fingers that you get when you’ve just woken up. But he’d been awake for hours. Once he was dressed, he sat again, for longer this time, just to build his strength up.

* * *

He drove to Aziraphale’s shop with the Bentley’s windows rolled right down, gulping in deep lungfuls of air, as if could help. His vision and reflexes were as fast as usual, which was a relief. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he lost his ability to drive.

He entered the shop and was warmly greeted by Aziraphale, which immediately made him feel a tiny bit better. He was longing to take a look at Aziraphale’s books, a new desire for him, but he truly believed that the key to solving his curse was somewhere in the angel’s collection of ancient tomes.

Aziraphale was prattling on about something, normally, Crowley could listen to him for hours but the pain in his chest was distracting. The angel had his back to him so it seemed the right time...

Crowley clicked his fingers. A loud screech of metal tore through the air and a scream was heard. A minor crash, a fender bender really - nobody would be injured but it would be enough to distract Aziraphale.

“My goodness!” Aziraphale rushed out, the door swinging shut behind him. Perfect. 

Crowley set to work at once, pulling books off shelves. What to look for? A gardening book or a medical journal? Both?

He found it as if by fate’s design. The small paperback book was called  _ Magical Maladies  _ and he was instinctively drawn to it. He flipped through the pages, eyeing the gory illustrations without expression.

_ Hanahaki Disease.  _ The simple black and white illustration depicted a melancholic maiden with teary eyes and petals falling from her mouth. The next drawing showed the inside of her body. A large bushel of flowers and branches appeared to be growing in her chest cavity, vines entwined around the rib cage. Her heart wasn’t even visible, so thickly covered in vines, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle.  _ Gotcha. _

He swiped the little book, hiding it under his jacket just in time, as Aziraphale’s face appeared around the door.

“What a terrible mishap! Seems some nice young lady’s brakes failed, she’s quite alright but her car-” he broke off, his gaze travelling over the pile of books on the floor. “What have you done? Crowley-”

“Hey, I’m a demon, we’re supposed to...make trouble…”

“Make _ trouble? _ Make a mess, more like. Oh, look at it all!”

“What do you care? You can just miracle it back to normal!”

“That’s really not the point, Crowley. I do think-”

Crowley didn’t know what the point was, or what Aziraphale thought, because he didn’t stay to find out. The book was burning a hole in his side, where it was clamped to his left rib, reminding him all too closely of the flowers blooming in his chest. Even the thought was enough to make his breaths feel very shallow, the tightness (either real or imagined, but potent enough) in his chest made him feel like he was wearing a corset. He was glad to see that particular item of clothing fall out of fashion.

He hurried to his Bentley, with Aziraphale’s complaints ringing in his ears and drove home.

* * *

Crowley sat at his desk, the stolen book open, turned to the page of the suffocating maiden.

**_Hanahaki is a fatal disease that affects those who harbour a secret unrequited love._ **

“Unrequited love…” He wasn’t thick enough to think that could be about anybody but Aziraphale. Who else did he speak to regularly or semi-regularly? He wasn’t choking on flowers for Sergeant Shadwell, that’s for sure.

But how could he not love Aziraphale? Aziraphale was lovable, he was an angel, that’s their whole shtick. But then, Aziraphale wasn’t like the other angels, was he? Sandalphon with his sinister grin, Gabriel with his efficient ruthlessness...Aziraphale never even swore.

The point was, Aziraphale wasn’t a regular angel. He didn’t talk like them, think like them, didn’t share their aspirations or approaches to problems. He was a rebel, something Crowley had always admired. He thought back to their first proper meeting. Aziraphale had given away a flaming sword because he’d felt sorry for a couple of humans.

That rebellious streak...could it perhaps help ignite any romantic feelings in the angel?

Crowley sniffed. No, that was stupid. Aziraphale had never indicated any interest in doing anything with Crowley that involved them so much as taking their jackets off.

But...imagine if he did…

Daydreams flickered in his mind, flipping from one to the next like a projector was playing in the cave of his skull.

_ Aziraphale giggling, playfully swatting at Crowley, Aziraphale full and sleepy after too much wine and food, lolling in his seat, protesting when Crowley tried to get him to sober up, Aziraphale leaning heavily on Crowley’s shoulder, his lips brushing Crowley’s cheek - _

Crowley stopped abruptly. This was an innocent memory, a memory of his sweet, sleepy friend leaning on him, relying on him, why did he have to make it so...perverted? Yes, it was a demon’s way but Crowley was proud Aziraphale was so uncorrupted. He pictured Aziraphale discovering Crowley’s pathetic little crush, his nose wrinkling in disgust and his beautiful blue eyes filled with disappointment.

And he would be disappointed that Crowley had let his demonic urges sully their friendship.  _ Oh Crowley, how could you? I thought we were friends...all this time you were just undressing me with your eyes? _

Crowley growled in frustration. That’s the way Aziraphale would see it. But it was more than that. This wasn’t about filling a desire, this was about knowing he mattered to Aziraphale in the deepest way, that their bond was more than an allyship, something formed by stress and a mutual appreciation of the earth. Crowley wanted to believe that their bond was something beautiful, eternal, that they could have met in a thousand different bodies in a thousand different scenarios and still walked away from the interaction with a new friend. In some strange way, he felt they were made for each other.

**_The victim experiences tightness in the chest and may feel foreign movement in their throat and chest. Flowers will grow around the heart and chest, eventually suffocating the lungs or winding around the heart, making it unable to function._ **

**_There are only two known methods of curing Hanahaki Disease._ **

  * **_The victim confesses their romantic feelings to their beloved. If their beloved fully accepts and reciprocates these feelings, the flowers will wilt and die, eventually leaving the body through defecation or emesis._**



Well, he wasn’t going to do that. He’d come so close to losing Aziraphale during Armageddon, he wasn’t going to risk spooking the angel, like a nervous colt.

  * **_There is a cleansing ritual that halts the flowers’ progress and kills the infestation. However, this will also kill the victim’s love for their beloved. They will henceforth regard their beloved with hatred or disinterest and will be unable to love them again._**



Crowley read the rest of the chapter but it only spoke of the ritual (didn’t look too difficult to perform) and possible cases of historical figures who died of Hanahaki Disease. It did say that supernatural beings (although it didn’t specify which ones) who were afflicted with the disease would survive longer than humans, but not by much.

He closed the book and shoved it in a drawer. Okay. So. On the one hand, there were two possible cures. On the other hand, he couldn’t possibly entertain either one of them.

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley told his reflection later, as he got ready for bed. His reflection stared back at him impassively. “You’re in love with somebody who doesn’t love you. One ritual, bit of heather and prayer, and you won’t love him anymore. You...you won’t even want to see him,” He tried to picture an Anthony Crowley who didn’t love Aziraphale. His eyes burned as he imagined Aziraphale cheerfully greeting some aloof Crowley who stared coldly at him. Aziraphale, his pretty face confused and hurt, wondering why his friend was treating him like they were enemies again. 

Crowley drew in a breath, and even he winced at the harsh scraping of his throat. It sounded like his throat was full of iron filings. Aziraphale was supposed to be coming over for tea tomorrow.

* * *

Aziraphale was having tea with him, at Crowley’s flat. Crowley sat at his counter, watching the angel bustle around the kitchen, pulling out drawers and lamenting Crowley’s dearth of biscuits. He was painfully aware of his own breathing, it was ragged, as if he’d been running. Aziraphale noticed because of course he did.

“Are you alright? You don’t sound…”

“What?  _ Tickety boo? _ ” He knew he was in a foul mood and not in the right state to entertain company, and he also knew the only reason he felt so fucking sick was because of this bloody voluptuous angel waddling around his kitchen.

“My dear, is everything quite alright?”

“Don’t call me dear. Sounds like we’re married.” he spat out. He also spat out a clump of petals, stuck together with blood, but Aziraphale was turned around at that point so fortunately didn’t see. Crowley shoved it in his pocket.

“Married, eh? Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Aziraphale placed a mug on the table in front of Crowley with a touch more force than needed. Tea slopped over the rim.

Crowley blinked up at him. Even with his brows drawn together in a frown, and his lips pursed, he still looked so lovely. Crowley propped his head on his hands, watching the neat little man bustle about his kitchen.  _ Such grace. _ His heart ached.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

_ Shit. _ He hadn’t realised he’d spoken.

“I said this tea is weak.”

“You’re more than welcome to make it yourself, next time, Crowley. I’m a guest in your home, after all,”

Crowley snorted.

Once Aziraphale was finished making the tea, he sat across from, placidly sipping, while Crowley drummed on the countertop with his fingers. It hadn’t been this awkward since...ever. Aziraphale seemed like he wanted Crowley to say something, those enormous doe eyes fixed on him as if silently pleading.

“Aziraphale. What?”

“What is wrong with you? You’re distracted, you’re grumpy and downright unpleasant at times. Something’s not quite...right with you, Crowley.”   


“Something hasn’t been right with me for...uh, a while.”

“So, what’s wrong? Tell me!”

“I CAN’T!” he roared, immediately regretting it when a pile of petals worked their way up his throat. He coughed and coughed and tried to swallow them back down.

“ _ Crowley… _ ” and that frightened gasp shouldn’t sound so good, like a lover’s caress, like a sigh of longing....his friend was terrified and all he could think of was how beautiful his name sounded when it came out of Aziraphale’s lips.

At least Aziraphale hadn’t seen the petals…

“Crowley, please, let me help you-” Aziraphale started and his gentle hands grasping Crowley’s arm made him rear back like a horse, mad and panicked.

“Stay back, angel! I -I’m fine, just. Need to be alone right now,”   


“I’m not leaving you-”

“You don’t understand, please go-”

“Crowley-”

“GET OUT! I - I’ll call if you if I need but you need to get the fuck out,”

And Aziraphale, shocked and upset, left.

* * *

It had been six months and per request, Aziraphale hadn’t contacted him once. His breaths were coming in shorter, and his chest ached constantly. He couldn’t have much longer, surely? It seemed cruel to drag this out. He’d been hoping that something would give, perhaps the flowers would die of their own accord or some divine intervention would heal him. But there was nothing. Just him and an overflowing pint glass of petals.

He spent most of his time in bed. He didn’t feel as bad when he wasn’t moving. At least he could sleep. He decided to take a nap, not as long as ones he’d taken in the past but long enough. He didn’t wake for seven months.

* * *

Awake. Eyes blinking. Black outside. Probably time. Time to discorpo-discor-dis...die

Should see Aziraphale. Say hi. Say I love you.

His body is heavy. Covers snag his ankles. Crashes hard. Lands on covers. Grabs bed, gets up. Out the door.

Cold night. Black outside.

Can’t drive. Not safe. Factories, no  _ faculties _ not working right. Breaths short now. Conserve energy, the brain. Think slow, each thought sluggy-sluggish.

Sluggish. He’s sluggish.

Not safe. To drive.

So.

He walks.

**Step.** _Think._ **Step.** _Think._

 **Step.** _Book._ **Step.** _Shop._ **Step.** _Find._ **Step.** _Angel._ **Step.** _Tell angel._ **Step.**

_ I love him. _

Sharp breaths are a knife in his gut. His hand is on dry brick, dragging along a wall.

Faraway voices. Ugly. Rough. Concerned. Human.

They ask him if he’s drunk.

Even if he’d wanted to respond, he doesn’t have the breath to do so.

Is the shop always this far away? He thinks God has stretched out the pavement like a grey strip of chewing gum, to elongate it. Prolong his suffering. But still.

**Step.** _Think._ **Step.** _Think._

**_Lights!_ **

_ Beautiful golden light spilling out onto the black street, warm lamplight from an old, red shop. A beacon, a flame, drawing him in. The knowledge that his angel is on the other side of that red wall hits him hard in the chest and his heart convulses. He laughs but his laugh is like wind chimes. _

_ He can see that beautiful blond head, it’s blurred like smeared ice cream in his foggy vision, and it’s moving closer, and the door is opening, this big solid thing is moving and it confuses him, and then he hears the voice. _

_ It’s a hundred things at once, a rustle of velvet, a sweet siren’s song, an angelic harmony that strikes a chord in his tired, suffocated vocal chords until it feels like it’s emanating within him. _

_ So many words jumble up in his head, impatient to get out and he attempts sound, but that’s all it is, sound, a garbled slur that makes the pretty angel frown.  _

_ fknecldflhqfnekgbyuwniBADFACEANGELSADjihujybtvufygumhngybfuvgyibhjnobugiyfutrdfugiuhoinj _

_ Angel touches his face. _

o;ihg]ytrdyANGELFACESOFTNICEGOOD,;ljvbyjcjuyghugrdytfgynk!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AnGLE.ANg.NGEL. 

Lvoe.angle.

AaeZ1rafallllllllllllll___________________________________________________________________>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Aziraphale shrieked as Crowley fell to the ground with a smack.

* * *

He’d always wanted to cradle Crowley in his arms, be given the chance to touch his face. But not like this.

Crowley was sickeningly bony. He always looked so fashionable in the tight human clothing, skinny and graceful, but now, it felt like he was hugging a skeleton. He was horribly aware that if this is IT for him, he wouldn't be able to get a new corporation.

He felt cool and Aziraphale was terrified, a sick coil of cold iron in his belly until he remembered that Crowley is always cool to the touch. He is a snake, after all. He yanked off Crowley’s sunglasses and they shattered on the pavement. His eyes were closed and he couldn’t bring himself to pry the eyelids open, afraid that beautiful gold would be dull and blind, unseeing.

Instead, he lowered his head to Crowley’s face, his ear against those thin, parted lips. There was breath, thank the almighty, a worrying rattle but breath nonetheless. It sounded muffled, not muffled against his ear but muffled as there’s an obstruction and he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, sliding it into the slack mouth and down the throat. There was something hard there and he dug, jerked the pen around until at last a red ball popped out and rolled down Crowley’s chest. He seized it, it was hard but smooth and felt like - like petals.

Hanahaki Disease.

No.  _ Crowley. _

It’s him. It’s because of  _ him. _ It has to be him. Who else could it be?

“You stupid man! You foolish, selfish, proud creature!” he cried. “Why attempt to carry this alone? Do you think I wouldn’t have had you?”

He pictured ugly twisted stalks wrapped around Crowley’s ribs like bandages, stuffing up his chest cavity and crawling up his throat. Climbing higher, until they reached the skull, a heavy clump of wet flowers squatting on the brain, wiping out logic, the speech centre, everything that made him Anthony J. Crowley.

He grabbed Crowley’s face, the tips of his fingers digging into those perfect cheekbones, perhaps a little rougher than he should. “Your pride has killed you! I love you, you fool! Always. Forever. Since time began…” The tears were flowing more freely now, rolling down the slope of his nose and splattering onto Crowley’s face. “Eternity wouldn’t have been enough to have you. Let alone a few years, cruel, small years. I love you,” he said. He sank down, pressed his face into Crowley’s chest like a child seeking comfort. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

He didn’t dare hope. He’d never been allowed to have what he wanted, why would it change now? All those silly little fancies, cake and sushi, the smell of rain and a new suit, even the earth itself, he would have given it all away, sold it to Satan with hardly a hesitation if it could breathe life into the body. So he sat, and he sobbed.

His breathing was thick through the tears, wheezing above the choke of sobs. He tried to calm down, take softer breaths lest he hyperventilate and pass out beside his love, but the wheezing remained. Irritated with himself, he pressed his sweaty palm to his lips but realised the sound wasn’t coming from him.

Which meant that-

“Crowley!” He threw his arms around Crowley once more, squeezing him so tightly he swore he heard Crowley’s rib bones creak. 

“Aaaaangelllll….” Crowley croaked. His breath reeked of roses.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re alright!”

  
“….got...” he said slowly, his eyes flickering left and right as he struggled to form words. “...killer...headache....”

A human wouldn’t be able to recover that quickly, not even a normal demon would, but nothing about Crowley was normal.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley let him carry him into the warm shop.

* * *

When Crowley awoke, he had trouble placing where he was. But he caught the scent of old paper and Aziraphale’s aftershave, and he knew he was in the bookshop. He appeared to be in the backroom, lying on the sofa. It was soft and comfortable and he gave an experimental wriggle, but then realised that there was no tightness in his chest.

Being able to take a breath that didn’t burn anymore. A loosening in his rib cage, an unlocking as branches and flowers were pushed aside by his inflating lungs, his mind’s eye conjuring up an image of thick vines sagging, weakening and turning brown as they died. The monstrous flowers cringing, like a slug that’s just touched salt, dissolving in the heat of his internal organs. He still felt congested, his chest full of things that had no right to be there, but the pressure had lifted and he gasped, whether because he needed the air or out of shock, he couldn’t say.

“You’re awake!” Aziraphale said and Crowley tried to sit up, but was unsuccessful.

At once, Aziraphale hurried over to him and placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, gently pushing back down. “No, no, don’t get up! The patient needs his rest!”

“So you...know I was sick, then?” At Aziraphale’s nod, Crowley sighed. “What happened?”

“You’ve been here for a month. You came here, talking in tongues and collapsed outside. I was terrified. I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened, not even during Armageddon,”

“Really?”

“ _ Yes. _ Er, how are you feeling, my dear?”

Crowley considered the question. “Okay, considering. I don’t think I could run for a bus right now, but I feel better than I have in ages. Um, did you, did you know what was wrong with me?”

Aziraphale glanced at the arm of the sofa and Crowley craned his neck to see a small rose resting upon it. “Oh,”

“You’ll feel better soon. You’ll be completely cured in about a month, the books say. In the next few weeks, the flowers will weaken, and then wilt and new flowers won’t grow. You’ll probably experience, um, vomiting. Your body working to eject the dead flowers. Not pleasant but better than not being able to breathe, eh?”

“How did I survive? Was it an act of you-know-who?”

“No, She was absent. Not to toot my own horn, but you have me to thank for ridding you of your floral infestation,”   


How? Had he used a miracle? Because Crowley had tried every demonic miracle he knew and that hadn’t worked. Unless…

Crowley’s mouth ran dry.

Had Aziraphale performed the surgery? Removed all Crowley’s feelings for him, to save him? But...he still felt warm when he gazed at the angel. He still noticed all the little things, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he bobbed excitedly in his seat when he’d informed Crowley that he’d saved him. He couldn’t possibly be aware of those things if his love had been surgically removed. He still felt the same feelings regarding Aziraphale that he always felt...which meant…

“Angel, got a question, don’t think you have to lie for my account or anything, but...do you....love me?”

“I’ll forgive you for being slow on the uptake because you’ve had a bouquet sitting on your brain for weeks-” Aziraphale said and then he was leaning over, big in Crowley’s foreground, filling his vision with sparkly eyes and blond curls. And then his lips, as soft and velvety as the petals that had plagued Crowley but warm, hot, hotter than his own lips, were moving on Crowley’s. They were thick, plush, built for pleasure, wrapped around Crowley’s hard, unforgiving mouth. He kissed back, dazed but willing, and although in his fantasies, he was the one pushing Aziraphale onto a bed or sofa, pinning his arms above his head and trailing kisses all over his body, in reality, all he could do was lie there, one hand weakly curled in Aziraphale’s hair. And kiss back.

Aziraphale pulled back, too soon, Crowley thought.

“Mmm, no, I wan - kissing. I wanna keep kissing,” Crowley mumbled.

“ _ Crowley. _ We have all the time in the world to kiss. But right now, there’s something I need to do that simply can’t wait a second longer,”   


“What’s that?”

“I need to tell you this,” Aziraphale said. He pressed his lips to Crowley’s ear and whispered: " _ I love you _ ,” and to Crowley, it sounded like a celestial choir. 

But better. Much, much better.


End file.
